


my darling, if this is good bye

by wreckofherheart



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - World War II, Dresses, F/F, Femslash, Hurt/Comfort, Waltzing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-07
Updated: 2015-04-07
Packaged: 2018-03-21 18:36:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3702115
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wreckofherheart/pseuds/wreckofherheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They taunt themselves in make believe. This is all temporary. One day, maybe, they will be together. [Peggy/Natasha]</p>
            </blockquote>





	my darling, if this is good bye

**Author's Note:**

> Because I can't get enough of these WWII AUs, and I love Peggy/Nat. This is a oneshot. I hope you enjoy!

Delicate is not a word Peggy would use to describe Natasha. She is the very opposite of delicate. Natasha is harder than stone; it takes much force and precision to break her, and even  _that_  requires particular strength and a degree of intelligence. Her limbs are that of steel; they have snapped on countless occasions, and are now tougher than any metal. And, yet, she is as flexible as elastic. Her body moves like waves. Gentle but terrifying as she prepares, readies herself for attack; and she comes crashing down with an almighty quake.

For the first five years of knowing this monstrosity of a woman, Peggy would never have thought Natasha as delicate. Delicate implies daintiness. Worse, it implies  _weakness_  and Natasha is one of few people Peggy has no desire to insult. If Natasha were delicate, she surely would not be alive. She surely would not have survived. Oh, surely, if Natasha were delicate, her lips wouldn't taste of poison and her promises wouldn't be empty lies.

They are being hunted. Soldiers have been ordered to retreat, and Peggy is amongst them. She discovers a Chapel close by, and suggests they spend a couple of hours there to rest. The rain is hazardous and pelts against their dirty skin. Mud splashes across their uniforms, and their fingers grow numb by the freeze, but no man complains. They are used to neglect and the absence of a mother's warmth. This is War.

The Chapel is chilly, but it's dark, and they're hidden and dry. Peggy watches as some of the soldiers approach the alter, kneel down at the crucifix of Christ, and pray. She considers joining them, but instantly changes her mind. She doesn't want to pray. It's that simple. She just doesn't have it in her to fall to her knees and pray. All that's on her mind is bringing this small army home, back to their wives, their brothers, their children.

For the first time in her life, she doesn't believe God will save her. She doesn't  _believe_  and it's a crushing revelation. Her faith has been destroyed.

Most soldiers fall asleep. They have been awake for over thirty hours, after all.

Peggy sits alone; lately she's preferred her own company and while the men she's with are pleasant, sometimes it's good to just remain isolated for a while.

That's when the Black Widow appears. A Russian spy, a very useful asset towards the War, but not somebody Peggy would necessarily consider an ally. They have met on multiple occasions, and only by chance. This time, though, Peggy is certain Natasha followed her, and she can't suppress her annoyance. Peggy  _hates_  being followed.

Natasha's feet move silently against the smooth floorboard. She's completely dressed in black, and her auburn hair is frizzy due to the damp weather. None of the other soldiers will notice her arrival. Natasha is freakishly stealthy, not to mention quick. She's appeared from the vestry; there must have been a window or another door leading from the outside.

'I have something to show you.'

Her voice is low; a whisper. Peggy gives her a look. 'I've seen enough today.'

'You'll like this.'

Peggy peers behind her shoulder to make sure none of the men will see her leave. She then stands to her feet, grabs her wet jacket and follows Natasha back into the vestry. It's surprisingly warmer inside. There is a table pressed against the wall, where another Crucifix stands. Old daffodils have fallen limp in a vase near the Crucifix, and there is a Priest's dress robe draped over a chair. Various religious books are neatly stacked in a dusty bookshelf, and there are some unlit candles on the mantlepiece, where Peggy discovers is a card with a prayer written on.

She steps on something hard and it  _crunches_  under her weight. Peggy looks down and realises it's wax from when the candles were previously lit.

A wardrobe stands by the open window where Peggy guesses Natasha must have slipped through. The rain trickles down the glass, and the wind is vicious. Peggy shudders, and wraps her arms around herself while Natasha opens the wardrobe. Within are a couple more Priest dress robes, a yellowed shirt, and a dress. It is that which Natasha pulls out and shows to her.

The dress is white, and has flowery patterns across it. It's sleeveless, and fitted around the bust and around the waist. As it reaches the hips, it is spacious and flows down to the hemline; like petals. The dress itself has neat folds, giving it a very feminine touch, almost angelic. Peggy comes closer and runs her hand down the soft material and has to smile. She has missed wearing dresses, and she does hate how they are viewed as such silly things on women.

'Try it on,' she says.

Natasha cocks a brow. 'I thought this would suit you better.'

'I'm dirty and wet. I'll ruin it. You try it on.'

Natasha hesitates, then shrugs, 'Fine.' She hands it over and Peggy holds the dress while Natasha pulls off her fitted uniform.

Soon, aside from her panties and bra, Natasha is bare before her. But nakedness is no sore sight for any soldier. Together they have witnessed the Devils dance around corpses of innocent men. A naked body isn't a shock, and Peggy doesn't bat an eye. Natasha takes the dress and steps into it. Peggy comes over to help zip up the back, before tying the ribbon behind, creating a bow.

Peggy steps back and admires her.

Delicate is not a word Peggy would use to describe Natasha.

Delicate is too dangerous a word to attach Natasha with.

Delicate leaves Peggy breathless.

Natasha's skin is soft, and her shoulders are small. Her arms show signs of carrying masses of weight, and strain. Her flesh is torn from her left wrist up to the bend in her arm, and has been stitched in a hurry. There are freckles scattered over her shoulders, down her arms, and her neck is pale and sweet, longer and more elegant than Peggy ever imagined. Her chest rises as she inhales, and Peggy's eyes fall onto the area of naked skin above her breasts.

The dress outlines the curve of her hip, and her thighs are invisible behind the gorgeous veil of white. Natasha runs both hands through her hair in an attempt to straighten it out, and lets it fall down her back. A curtain of scarlet, a shocking contrast to the innocence of her dress. Death and purity. Two characters whom should never share the same space. Peggy exhales shakily, and looks at Natasha's face: her button nose, pale lips, freckled, rosy cheeks and emerald eyes.

Natasha is watching her.

They meet in a short, understanding glance. Natasha twitches a smile, holds the edge of her dress, and then twirls.

Later, they'll comfort each other in saying this was a joke.

But Natasha is showing off, she's  _teasing_  her, she's seducing her, wanting her to notice, and they love every second of it.

The dress dances at her knees, and swirls round when she stops, before softly bouncing off her calves and falling back into place. Natasha expresses a naïve girl from home, where dinner is ready on the table, and father will return home from work; and the sun shines and children play outside, and the War is just a nightmare. Something very far from reality, a story, a legend, a myth. Natasha expresses happiness, of love, warmth and everything Peggy misses.

Everything she holds dear.

'Do that again. Wait–'

Peggy takes Natasha's right hand. There is plaster on her palm, covering a bloody injury, but it's ignored. Natasha frowns at her in mild curiosity, then catches on. Peggy raises the other woman's arm, and beams when Natasha twirls again, this time allowing Peggy to lead her. Natasha's hair follows after her, draping around her shoulders as she faces Peggy again. As soon as she does, it's just natural for her feet to come between Peggy's, for her chest to touch hers, and for her other hand to rest on Peggy's other arm.

She's aware of Peggy guiding her, that her hand is applying only slight force to her waist, but it's bizarrely comforting. Natasha smirks. 'Do you waltz?'

'When I can, and only with the right partner.'

'Oh, well, while you wait for him – why not teach me?'

'Don't you have anywhere else to be?'

'Not right now.'

Delicate.

Natasha's eyes are bigger than she's seen them before. She blinks, and looks at her expectantly, hungry for knowledge and respect. Her voice is a mere reflection of herself. The hardness in her tone has evaporated some. She sounds so  _feminine_. Like a girl, smiling amongst the happy flowers she's laid herself around.

There's a lost childhood breaking through.

'Okay.'

So, Peggy teaches her the first basic steps of the waltz.

Like she expects, Natasha is a fast learner.

But she has done this before.

She moves gracefully, and her thighs are strong and feet support her incredibly well. Natasha is  _light_ ; it's as if she doesn't weigh a single ounce. Peggy is slightly distracted by her evident skill. She keeps her voice hushed as she directs Natasha against the cold, stone ground, one hand at her hip, the other embracing Natasha's hand in her own.

One, two, three; one, two, three; one, two three– 'See? It's simple.'

'Yes, but there's more! You're teaching me the easy stuff.'

'I'm afraid I may bore you.'

'No, you aren't.' Natasha looks at her. 'You don't have to worry about boring me anyway.'

Peggy has to remember her in this moment. Natasha's eyes, wide with curiosity, lips slightly parted, her breath tickling Peggy's cheek – she truly is a beauty. A wonder. A Goddess of brilliance and mystery. Peggy's grip on Natasha's hand tightens a little; she holds her closer. If she doesn't look away now, she may not ever be able to.

Oh, she hasn't seen such a pretty vision in decades.

It's too much for somebody who has committed so much sin.

Natasha moves with her effortlessly, and Peggy agrees to challenge the spy a bit more. The pattern of the dance advances and the tempo quickens – Peggy voices the beat, allowing Natasha to get a good idea of what it would be like if there was an accompaniment. If they were together, like this, dancing before an audience.

She wants her to know what that's like: to perform.

Yet, she can't help but wonder if Natasha already has. If somebody else – a man, or many men, undoubtedly – has touched her waist and guided her. She wonders hundreds of things about the woman, and she wonders if there  _is_  a man. A man who holds her hand, dances themselves silly until reality is a fantasy, and who waits for her in Russia, clutching her heart until he may, hopefully, see her wonderful face again.

They come to an end, and England calls; its music high and bright –  _God Save The Queen_.

Peggy suddenly misses home dreadfully, and releases Natasha's hand so she can wipe her eyes. She is so cold, hungry and tired, and her legs hurt. The Chapel is gloomy, and she desperately wants to get out of here, to run away, to just miraculously arrive in London or Lake Windermere, oh, Gods,  _anywhere_. She doesn't care about the bombings, the Nazis, the cries of her allies. She just wants to get away, far, far, far away.

'I'm sorry,' Peggy dries her face, and her hands fall to her sides. 'I must rest. We will be departing shortly and I can't waste anymore energy.'

'I understand.' Natasha looks down and steals a glance at the dress she's wearing, and, to her, this is all fun and games. This  _is_  a laugh. She wants Peggy to remember this moment and grin at the irony, but Peggy cannot possibly do such a thing!

Here they are, dirty and bloody from the War; this warrior is in a stranger's dress! And Peggy has the audacity to take the Russian's hand and teach her how to dance. Dance to what? The screams of children? The yells of Generals and soldiers who volunteer to walk right into death? Dance to this Hell God has descended upon them? Peggy clenches her jaw, and she can't believe she ever thought of God so darkly.

This cannot be His doing, surely.

 _Please, please give me faith_   _– hope._

'You are a very delicate thing,' Natasha speaks, and kisses her. 'You can't cry.'

Peggy wipes her nose with the back of sleeve, nods her head, and then pulls Natasha in for another kiss. This one is longer, harder, and there's a sense of urgency behind it as her hands knot in Natasha's hair. But they both know the risks and the disasters which love has caused.

Lips hovering over hers only for a moment, they taunt themselves in make believe.

This is all temporary.

One day, maybe, they will be together.

Peggy leaves quickly. She doesn't leave any mark of her arrival, and by the time Natasha has returned the dress, the rain has stopped pouring.

Then, one by one, they flee.


End file.
